


Some Kind of Superpower

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: John Dies at the End (2012), John Dies at the End - David Wong
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Hurt/Comfort, WIP, Whump, better here than gathering dust on my computer, shared pain, wrote this a long time ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: After an incident with a bird-monster, John and Dave have to deal with some consequences. John thinks it's awesome. Dave thinks it's stressful.





	Some Kind of Superpower

Ok, it would be a waste of time to explain to you how we ended up in such a situation, so I’m just going to skip that and talk about when things got interesting.

There John and I were, half of our bodies trapped in the wall of some old, dead lady’s house. The walls were like goo when we entered them, but instantly hardened back to normal around us. I know, I know, but I promise it was a really boring story.

The vulture-looking fucker pacing in front of us had one beady on me, the other looking at the space between John and myself. The thing was taller than me and had human feet peaking out from under its feather coat, like when a cat sticks its paws under a closed door. Just a hint of flesh.

We didn’t go in unarmed, if that’s what you’re thinking. We aren’t idiots. Well, not in that sense of the word anyway.

I had a gun. My sweat slicked hand didn’t want to let it go, even though that’d’ve probably been the smart move, because it was pointed directly at John’s head. When we’d gotten thrown into the wall—I would have pictured something different upon reading that had I not been there—my wrist had been locked in the hard material, but my gun wielding hand was outside of the wall.

If only I could turn my wrist a few inches I would—oh, the creature was monologuing now. I would’ve listened, just because it’s the polite thing to do, if I hadn’t already heard the same speech Every. Single. Shitting. Time.

Money, sex, or power. Those were the three human motivators for crime. Monsters, such as the falcon creature’s motive, were usually the latter. Though we have had a run in with a pretty frisky glob of shower-drain hair.

The falcon’s voice made me want to itch the center of my brain, if you can imagine what that feels like. If not, it’s kind of like when a smoke detector goes off right as you’re about to fall asleep. Piercing, penetrating, and just annoying as hell.

I did eventually tune in to what it was saying, though I will now admit I should have listened to the whole thing a little more carefully.

“—and because of that, I shall punish you,” It leaned in close to my face, breathing heavily. I wanted to puke. John yawned. I’m sure if he could have, he would’ve checked his watch too.

It touched my forehead with one of its many talons. I wrinkled my forehead and tried to see what it was doing.

It then reached over and placed a different talon on John’s forehead, all the while mumbling something that made no sense.

“Ding-dong, nut weiner sack.” I’ve probably got that wrong, but that’s what it sounded like.

It removed its talons and stepped back, one eye on each of us. That’s just cheating.

“Aghh, shiiit!” John yelled, his face scrunching up and his eyes screwing shut. What the hell?

He stopped yelling abruptly, his chin touched his chest.

Then his head snapped up, a stupid grin on his face.

“Just kidding, nothing happened,” he said. “Was that supposed to hurt, bird brain?”

I wanted to tell John not to antagonize the thing, but it looked as though it was leaving, paying no mind to John’s comment.

Its bare feet slapped on the tiled ground, as it made its way to the door.

It shrieked, and slammed the door behind it.

I turned to John and shrugged, or at least I tried to shrug. Damn wall was relentless. Was that right? Could inanimate objects be relentless? Eh, I didn’t care enough to find an answer.

“Can you move?” I asked, attempting to curl into a ball, imagining the wall just breaking away under the immense pressure of me trying to go into the fetal position. That didn’t happen.

“Uh, I think I have a year lease on my apartment, but I’d do anything for you, Dave,” he responded, his voice tight. Probably trying to punch the wall away.

I offered a forced, patronizing laugh.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot you,” I said, feeling a bit of true panic creep into my mind. What if we’re stuck like this forever? We’ll have to piss and shit in our pants and then die of dehydration after a few miserable days. Ah, the American dream.

“Wait,” John said. “You have a gun! Just bash it against the wall, I mean it’s tougher than whatever this is made of, right?”

I frowned, “I mean, yeah, but what if it accidentally goes off?”

“It won’t.” He said it so confidently. Like it was fact. Was everything an absolute with John? I knew it wasn’t.

“Fine, but you gotta lean as far away as possible.”

I then began smashing the butt of the gun against the wall, my finger safely outside of the trigger guard.

It took a stress filled half hour of me chanting ‘Don’t go off, please don’t do it’, but I eventually broke the wall away from where John’s hand was, and after that he took—what was now effectively a hammer—and began smashing the wall to shit until we were both free (and a few minutes even after that).

John brushed the leftover wall from his clothes, and dusted some from my shoulder.

I sighed, “I need a shower.”

A few days later I was in my kitchen cooking up a storm.

I actually don’t know what that phrase means, but I’m sure you have a mental image of me wearing an apron with pots and pans on every burner on the stove top, a large wooden spoon in my hand as I frantically try not to screw things up. If so, that’s not what it looked like at all, but fuck me, you’re going to picture it however you want.

Amy, my girlfriend, was going to arrive any minute and I was on a roll. Usually anytime I tried to use the stove I got burns on my fingers, but I was feeling pretty good that I had successfully cooked a meal with zero burns… God, I sounded like a seven-year-old who wasn’t allowed to cook without parental supervision.

A knock on the front door drew my attention. Amy.

I stopped what I was doing and rushed to the front door, brushing my hands through my flat hair, and pulling down my sleeves. A quick glance in the mirror mounted on my wall told me I still looked like shit. Had I always been that fat?

Peering through the peep hole, I was met with a mess of red hair. I smiled, feeling something I rarely felt those days: Horny.

Oh, you thought I was going to say something sweet? Alright, she also made my heart flutter, my chest tighten, and my mouth quirk up in a smile I couldn’t get rid of if my life depended on it.

I stared at her for a second before finally pulling the door open and greeting her.

She jumped up into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist, and pecked a kiss on my cheek.

“Merry Christmas, David,” She said, hoping down and pulling her glove off, followed by her scarf, and her very puffy coat.

I wanted to tell her that Christmas wasn’t for another two weeks, but I didn’t want to bring down her mood. I’m always bringing people down, but so what? Fuck them and fuck you too.

Her cheeks were rosy along with the tip of her nose and her ears, it was cute.

“I made food,” I announced, lamely waving a hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

She smiled, “Good, I’m starving.”

We stepped into the kitchen. I made a move for the pots, but she stopped me with a hand on my chest.

“You made it,” She glanced around. “And I can see you worked very hard, the least I can do is serve it up.”

“I love you,” I said, sitting down on one of the unsteady, wooden chairs that surrounded my table.

She picked up the pot that held the under-cooked noodles and inclined it toward my plate. I used my spoon to push some of them onto my cracked plate and then hers.

“So, how’s school?” I asked as she hefted up the pot full of steaming sauce and brought it toward me.

“Well, it’s-“ The pot slipped from her hold.

My hands instinctively shot out to catch it. And catch it I did. I held the supposedly scorching hot metal in my hands for a good two and a half seconds before I looked up to see Amy’s horrified face. I then proceeded to drop it the rest of the way to the ground, my now empty hands midair.

“Are you ok?” She asked, her hand hovering over my outstretched ones, too afraid to touch them should they be burned.

“Uh, yeah,” I stared at the red sauce pooling beside my chair. “I’m fine, I think. It didn’t hurt.”

Molly, the dog who lived in my house, trotted up and started tentatively licking at the spreading mess.

“You sure? That pot was like really hot.”

I nodded.

We cleaned up the mess and pulled some butter out of the fridge, placing the tub in the center of the table.

“Buttered noodles isn’t exactly the meal I had planned for your visit.”

“It’s ok, babe,” she said, scooping a large spoonful into her mouth. “Besides, I’ve kinda always had a thing for the simple meals.” She spoke around a mouthful of food, flashing a close-lipped smile.

“Hey, so school-“ My butt vibrated. “God dammit!”

I pulled out the buzzing contraption and saw John’s face staring at me.

The photo was washed out, but I could make out the expression he wore. His eyes were mid blink, with his chin lowered slightly, and his tongue hanging out like some college frat douche.

A metal piercing in the middle of his tongue reflected the flash back. He only had the piercing for a week before it got infected and he begrudgingly got rid of it thanks to some pushing on my part. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying with it in.

“It’s John,” I said, making eye contact with Amy.

It buzzed again.

“Well, pick it up.”

I did as she said, pressing the cool device against my ear and leaning away from the table.

“John?”

“Dude,” his voice was breathless, “Phones taste disgusting.”

I rolled my eyes. “John, Amy is here, can it wait?”

A pause.

“Amy’s there? Dude, that’s right, I am so sorry, I didn’t—”

“Is it important?” I asked, sending a glance at the redhead across the table. She was watching me, her mouth stuffed full of food. She looked like a chipmunk.

“Uh…No, sorry, I’ll just…see you tomorrow.” Another pause, then, “Can you come over tomorrow?”

“Sure, I’ll bring Amy, I’m sure she’s been wanting to see you too.”

“Round eight?”

“Yeah,” I looked over at Amy again. “Eight’s perfect.”

She waved.

“Ok, great, see you then. Sorry to, uh, interrupt.”

“It’s alright, I’ll see ya later,” and with that I hung up.

The rest of the dinner was, well, I wouldn’t call it uneventful, but it’s not pertinent to the story, so I’m going to jump forward to the next morning.

An incessant shaking woke me up. My bed was warm and Amy was--I reached out to pull her closer but was met with nothing but sheets--not in bed anymore. My brow furrowed, and I lifted my head slightly, eyes scanning left to right.

“Amy?”

The shaking came back and I flipped to my other side and saw Amy, fully dressed, standing above me.

“Wake up, we gotta go to John’s,” She leaned down, like she was going to kiss me, I leaned up to meet her half way, but she pulled back at the last second and I kept pushing closer until I was halfway sitting up.

“Since when do you get up so early? Usually both our asses are in bed until 10,” I asked, grumpily pulling my pants on.

“Morning classes, babe. Morning classes.”

I blearily got dressed, poured some coffee, and ate half a waffle, before a thought occurred to me.

“I think he meant eight at night,” I said over my shoulder.

“Well, then we’ll surprise him early,” Amy replied, walking up behind me and wrapping her arms around me, and for a second nothing in this fucked up town could hurt us. We were invincible, like the Hulk.

We made it to the car without slipping on any ice, though we did slide on it for a second acting like we were professional ice skaters. Heh, it’s kind of funny, the thought that I could be a professional anything. Crazy shit.

We could see our breath the entire car ride. What a piece of junk.

The car pulled up, two inches of snow crunching underneath the tires. We stepped out and made our way to his apartment, talking as we went.

This time though, I wasn’t so lucky with the ice. One second I was listening to Amy talk about her roommate, the next my feet weren’t under me anymore and the ground came rushing toward me. My face bounced on the hard concrete and I was sure I had broken a tooth, but once Amy helped me to my feet, it didn’t feel so bad.

In fact, it didn’t feel like I even kissed the pavement at all.

Amy bit her lip and frowned.

“You ok?” She asked, a hint of suspicion in her tone.

“Perfectly fine,” I answered.

A beat passed.

“Don’t think _I_ don’t think this is weird, Ames. Because it is. It’s weird as shit.”

We continued to John’s door in silence. Each of our minds running with possible answers to what the hell? Just what the hell?

I knocked, waited for a moment, looked to Amy and shrugged, before opening the door with my key.

Popping my head in first, I looked around. “John? Amy’s here, are you decent?” I asked, remembering the time… well, actually I don’t want to go into that.

We stepped in and immediately spotted him stretched out on the couch that I was sure someone had died on at some point. His forearms were covering his face and he made a grunting noise.

A quick glance at what some people call a coffee table, but what John and I call a beer table, confirmed that something was wrong.

An ibuprofen bottle lay on its side, it was sawed in half by what appeared to be a plastic knife, the kind we got with Rice Palace Chinese take-out. How in the hell did he do that? Saw through it, that is, not order Rice Palace.

“You ok, man?”

We got closer. He sat up and smiled. His mouth was bloody, it looked as though he’d used cherry juice mixed with red paint as mouthwash.

“John!” Amy and I said in unison, stepping toward him.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know,” he said, a bit of blood sliding down his chin. “A few seconds ago, it felt like I got punched in the face by Cris Cyborg,” he paused, considering. “Which I actually wouldn’t mind. But I didn’t do anything to cause it. I was just laying here, when all of the sudden ‘POP’!” He thrust his hand out like a punch.

That’s when I saw the napkins haphazardly taped to his hands. Also, from Rice Palace. The napkins, not the hands.

“What about those?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Last night I was playing GTA when my fingers started burning and itching. I put some band aids on ‘em ‘cause I didn’t want to stop playing. But then a little bit later it was like my hands were on fire. These blisters started popping up and my skin turned red and started peeling,” He said, gesturing wildly. “I mean, what the fuck? At first, I thought I was spontaneously combusting, but then it just stopped.”

He relaxed back into the couch, “Spooky, right?”

I was glad he wasn’t looking at me when I asked, “That’s why you called?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Had to dial with my tongue. I tried pretending it was something else I was licking,” he grinned. “But it just tasted like what I imagine sucking Robocop’s dick would taste like.”

I leaned back and grabbed a water bottle off the beer table, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to him.

“Rinse your mouth out with this.”

He held it between his wrists.

Amy and I stood there, her hand going into that thinking position where you stroke your chin. Who actually does that?

My girlfriend, that’s who.

John pointed the now empty bottle at Amy, “How’s school going?”

Before she could answer however, I had figured out what the hell.

“That vulture looking motherfucker!” I said. “When he touched our heads and said all that shit, he must’ve done something.”

John leveraged himself up from the couch, swaying on his feet slightly.

“Right, right,” he said, looking me up and down. “But you look fine.” He stepped closer. “Here, open your mouth.”

“What? Why?”

“Can you say the word antidesalabmeshtarism?” he inquired, squinting his eyes at me.

“_You_ can’t even say that word.”

“Can too, I just did.”

“That jumbled mess? _That_ was the word?”

“David face planted outside!” Amy shouted, earning both John and my eyes on her, silently prompting her to continue.

“I think whatever happened, it made it so that John felt the impact of you tripping outside.” She bit her lip. “If that makes any sense.”

“No, yeah,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I _did_ get burns while cooking last night, but I didn’t _feel_ them.” I looked to her. “And when I caught that sauce pan.”

She nodded in realization.

“Sauce?” John asked.

“Different sauce,” I brushed off, noting the disappointment in John’s face, and feeling a twist in my gut. “Ames slap me!”

Her lips tightened, and her brow descended slightly in reluctance. She slapped me. Pretty hard, based on John’s reaction.

He stumbled back slightly and clutched the side of his face, stunned at first but then his eyes rose to meet mine, and his face lit up.

“Holy shit!” He shouted. “Dude, if I get all the pain and consequences of your injuries, that means you’re like fucking indestructible!”

I blinked.

Oh my God, he was right. Holy shit, indeed. Was that a good or bad thing? If someone shot me, would the bullet bounce off of me and just the wound appear on John or would the bullet show up in him as well? If something happened to me that would have killed me, would it kill John? Wait, did this go both ways?

“Wait, does this go both ways?” I asked.

Amy turned to John with a sympathetic smile.

“Not so hard this time, please.”

He scrunched up his face, preparing for impact. I did the same, just in case.

The sharp crack of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, and my head jerked to the side, but not out of pain, out of the anticipation of pain. And I’m pretty sure my head jerked the wrong way anyhow.

I opened my eyes and saw the left side of John’s face glowing red in the shape of a hand. Despite that fact, he was grinning like an idiot.

He raised his eyebrows at me.

I shook my head.

“This is so cool, man. You could like jump out of buildings or _win_ bar fights with this, I mean damn.”

“No,” I said. “This is _not_ cool because you’d feel that bar fight or fucking die from that building thing. We’ve gotta find that vulture.”

Amy nodded.

John hesitated, then caved, and agreed, “Fine, we’ll kill Big Bird, but not before we use this superpower somehow.” He motioned between us excitedly.

“Any suggestions?”

“You could trip down a flight of stairs,” John said with a shrug. “But that’s just off the top of my head, I’m sure you or Amy could come up with something better. You know what,” he crossed his arms. “Give me an hour and a pen.”

I sighed, “I meant about how to find the vulture.”

“Oh.”

We sat, shoulder to shoulder, on John’s couch in silence. I was in the middle, a spot I was reluctant to take due to the spilt Chinese takeout that had taken up residence in between the already stained cushions and spawned a whole culture on its own.

But John had so thoughtfully placed a beach towel over it and declared it safe. Yeah, he wasn’t the one wearing his nice pants.

To my left sat Amy, her head leaning against my rigid shoulder. Her hand was tracing invisible art on my thigh as she pondered what our next move should be.

She had a calming effect on me no matter the situation, but it didn’t keep my mind from wandering, which was almost never a good thing.

How often did I actually get hurt? Never anything serious really, except last month when I dislocated my thumb. But that was because I was flipping a guy off and the car window crack wasn’t as big as I thought, and I was too stubborn to roll it down another inch, since the guy was watching me and all.

** _ Tip _ ** ** _:_ ** _ If your hand is stuck somewhere small (a Pringles can, possibly), the band aid method of pulling real quick, real hard is not the best option._

Other than that? Well, I did run headfirst into an open cabinet drawer, but that was John’s fault, not mine.

A couple shaving cuts, maybe I bite the inside of my cheek, but I wasn’t accident prone. At least, not any more than John himself was.

Unless…

Unless, we were on a case. Which we now were. Dammit.

When we’re on cases, John and I usually get beat up, beat to shit, kicked to shit, however you want to put it, but we could always walk away, because it was doled out between the two of us.

If only one of us was feeling the hits, that could be bad. Like _Samurai Cop_ bad.

On my right was John whose head was reclined back, resting gently on the top of the couch. He had one leg propped up on the beer table, and I could see his sock had a hole in it. A soft snoring drifted to my ears and I sent a look at Amy.

She peeked around my form to see him sleeping. She smiled and shrugged, going back to her activity of slowly and methodically rubbing a hole in my good pants.

Another half hour passed of us sitting there, Amy and I not wanting to move for fear of rousing John from his sleep.

Soft sun beams were slipping through the curtains, making the dust particles in the air visible. Amy shifted beside me. I stared at the inactive TV, my blurry reflection staring right back at me.

_Look at him,_ I thought, staring at the reflection that lacked any definitive features. _He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, he’s just some asshole who gets stuck dealing with shit that would send trained professionals crying to their moms._

I lipped the words ‘Fuck you’ to my reflection.

“Well, fuck you too.”

I froze. For a split second I thought my reflection had responded to me, I mean, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen, but then the voice continued to talk.

“We should get food,” John said. “But one of you _will_ have to spoon feed me, what with my hands being out of commission and all.” He stood up and stretched. “Dave? Can I count on you to do that?”

I rolled my eyes.

We ended up leaving fifteen minutes later, the sun having heated up the air enough to turn the snow on the ground into slush that had taken on a sick gray color. It made the world seem that much drearier. We couldn’t even have nice snow.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, I congratulate you. Thank you so much for reading; tell me what ya thought in the comments!


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